


Nontraditional

by beckzorz (heckofabecca)



Series: College non-au [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Multiple, Student Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 08:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18735592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/beckzorz
Summary: Bucky Barnes goes to college. It’s… not quite what he expected. Neither are you.





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**Author's Note:**

> Unlike most Bucky Barnes at college stories, this one is NOT an au. College isn't over for all of us at 22...  
> Follow-up to Spit-Take.
> 
> 01: Roll Call.  
> First day of classes. Bucky screws up.

Bucky adjusts his backpack on his shoulder as he peers into the classroom. No one’s noticed him, not yet.

Not even you.

You’re sitting one row back. Scrolling through your phone, chin in your hand as you wait for class to start. You’ve got one leg crossed over the other, sandaled foot bouncing to a private beat. Bucky’s ten minutes early, but you look perfectly settled, notebook and pens ready and waiting. How long have you been here?

His heart skips a beat as he steps inside, but that’s enough for your eyes to flit up and meet his. A smile breaks across your face, and you glance at the seat beside you. It’s one of the bigger desks, with actual legroom and a top big enough for a textbook _and_ a notebook. More to the point, it’s next to you.

Ever since that first meeting at the bar, he’s been thinking about you. Your well-timed jibe about the Soviet Union, the fierce, pleased glitter in your eye when he’d finally figured things out.

Embarrassing, really, that it had taken him so long. Natasha doesn’t have _normal_ friends.

All that, but also the look in your eyes when you’d first seen him. And every other breathless look you’d given him after.

It’s been months since then. Between his July visit to Wakanda and taking over training for Steve, who was off on a long mission in August, Bucky hadn’t had a chance to reconnect beyond finding out some of the classes you’d be taking. Three history, two gen eds.

The judicial system is taking its sweet-ass time, so Bucky is still benched from actual missions. As itchy as that makes him—watching Steve, Nat, Sam, and the others walk cheerfully into danger is harder than he’d thought—it’s got its benefits. Plenty of alone time, and the flexibility to take actual in-person classes. He’d signed up for two Tuesday-Thursday classes. One with you, one without.

Bucky slides into the seat beside you. Is it weird that he’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt in summer? No one else is. But no one seems to notice, either. You stuff your phone into your bag, foot still tapping in midair, and smile even brighter. You cross your arms, lean on your desk. The movement sends a hint of your scent his way. Shampoo, soap, and something distinctly _you_.

His stomach flips.

“Mornin’,” he says, tearing his eyes away. Maybe he shouldn’t have sat next to you.

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” you groan. “It’s not even nine thirty!”

Bucky hums in agreement, even though he’s been up since five.

“Oh please,” you say, laughing. “I bet you’ve been up since five!”

Bucky turns and stares at you. “What are you, a mind-reader or something?”

“Haha! That’d be fun. Well, maybe not.” You scrunch your nose, considering. “No, I just know Nat always was up at crazy hours. Figured you’d be too.”

“Hm.”

Bucky arranges his notepad and pencil on the desk. There class is slowly filling up, but it doesn’t feel like anyone’s recognized him yet.

“Hey,” he asks suddenly, “do they still do roll call?”

“Uh… Not usually. Maybe the first few weeks, some do.” You raise an eyebrow at him, sympathy leaking into your voice. “Worried?”

Bucky bristles. “No,” he says sharply.

You shrug, but there’s a sudden reservation in your eyes. You pull your phone back out and hunch in your seat.

“No one really thought Nat was the real thing,” you mutter, quiet enough so only he can hear. “You should be fine.” You go quiet and turn away.

Bucky leans his head back and stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

He didn’t mean to upset you, offend you—all he wanted was to wipe the pity off your face. He doesn’t give a crap if anyone recognizes him, not really. He’s been mostly exonerated. All that’s left is the military clearance.

More than that, he wanted you to smile at him again. Forget the sympathy, forget the pity, just _smile_. Give him that bright-eyed look, the one that makes him want to smile back and never stop…

But all he can see now is the back of your head, and that foot still tapping in midair.

The professor comes in, and the class starts. No roll call—just a syllabus, a brief introduction to the history of terrorism, and a group exercise on the definition of terrorism where you promptly join with two boys to your left. Bucky’s left to fend for himself.

Again.

 

—

 

His next class, at eleven, is all veterans. There’s a comfort in that. Even a few women vets, which is nice. Before class, there’s some swapping of war stories, of branches and units. Bucky keeps it vague, but the others take it in easily.

Then the professor does roll call, and no one bats an eye when _James_ says _here_.

Bucky’s gut twists as he thinks of your reassurance.

_You should be fine._

The professor calls him aside, after, his old eyes glinting with recognition.

“I fought in Vietnam,” Professor Hunt says. “My unit called ourselves the Howlers. After you.”

Bucky forces a smile. “Nice.”

He hasn’t taken classes on it, but he knows enough history to have mixed feelings about Vietnam. Still, it’s meant as an honor.

“You tell just as much as you want,” Hunt continues. He holds out his hand; Bucky takes it gingerly. Hunt is slight, shorter than him, face wrinkled with age. But his grip is firm. “It’s a pleasure to have you, Mr. Barnes. See you Thursday.”

 

—

 

“Well, how’d it go?”

Natasha’s face floats into his field of vision. Bucky’s sprawled on a flattened lawn chair on the roof patio. The stars are gleaming, summer constellations hanging low in the early night sky.

“Eh.”

Natasha nudges one of his legs off the seat and sits by his shin. “ _She_ had a nice time.”

He huffs. His hands curl into fists against his stomach, knuckles tapping together.

“What?” Natasha prods his knee.

“Think I offended her.”

“Eh, she’s tough. She’ll get over it.” Natasha pushes at his hip. “Move over, _moy dorogoy_.”

Bucky shifts over. Natasha lies down next to him, her head pillowed on his right shoulder. He blows her curls out of his face, and she chuckles, patting his arm. He shifts until it’s comfortable. An old, familiar kind of comfortable, one that settles some of the anxiety swirling in his mind.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” she murmurs. “It takes time, warming up to people. For all of us.”

Bucky sighs. Nods. She’s right, as always. But there’s a nagging question, now that there’s a person he wants to know.

Will he figure himself out in time, or will your patience run out?

“See Sagittarius?” Natasha asks. Bucky drags himself out of his thoughts and follows her pointing finger.

“Yeah,” he says. “I see it.”


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